


after the blaze

by mortalitasi



Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Adventure, F/M, Family, Friendship, Gen, Romance, Suspense, and A Lot of cussing i'm sorry my guys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-05 22:43:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12803970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortalitasi/pseuds/mortalitasi
Summary: Chloe Browne believes two things in life are certain: death, and taxes.She mostly stops herself from thinking about them both by working-- and working some more. When Reeve calls in a favor he earned from her long ago, she finds the careful balance of her life upset. People she's spent years avoiding are suddenly center-stage, demanding her attention.It's time to learn if she can survive under the spotlight.





	1. fight tune

**Author's Note:**

> proofread, polished a bit, and crossposted (more like deleted off of ffnet for my sanity). 
> 
> hope you enjoy! the next two chapters will be up soon.
> 
> fic is post both dirge of cerberus and advent children.

“Tell me you’re fucking with me.”

He looks vaguely uncomfortable with my choice of words. Let him. Reeve smiles too much.

“I assure you I’m not,” he says, steepling his fingers and staring at me across the table that divides us, dark eyes deadly serious. Of course he’s serious. Because, you know… just my luck.

“Do you have any idea how much money this is going to require? The type of equipment we’re going to need? The _amount of workers_?” I ask, the questions rattling out of me like rounds from a machine-gun. I wave the papers he gave me a minute ago to read through in his face. He doesn’t seem appreciative of that. “You’re asking me to do the impossible!”

He sniffs at me delicately and frees one hand to worry at his closely-cropped and meticulously-kept beard. “I thought you enjoyed challenges, Chloe. It’s why I asked you.”

“You mean it’s why you had me fly back to this _dump_ and pulled me away from my dig,” I say, slamming the papers down on his desk. He’s not affected. Reeve’s always been one of the few to ever be able to resist the many colorful faces of my temper. Mom still thinks it isn’t ladylike to swear. Family, right?

“Your rocks and fossils will be there when you get back,” Reeve replies calmly, still cool and collected. Him and his crazy composure. It ticks me off. “But this city is alive _now_ and it is decaying and its people are suffering. There’s only so much time before whatever stragglers there are scavenge the last useful parts of Midgar and move them beyond our reach.”

“ _That’s_ why you called for me? Gaia, Reeve! Couldn’t you just send your men into the ruins and drag what you needed out of them?” I say, now exasperated.

I’ve more than earned the right to spend my time the way I please, and it pleases me to be alone. Cosmo Canyon is usually my choice of haunt. The place has become a second home, and arriving there had been the first time I’d felt like I belonged since Nibelheim—and Nibelheim has been quite a while ago. The road hadn’t been easy. I’d clawed my way out of Midgar and then Edge by working three part-time jobs, sleeping about as much as you’d expect from a hyperactive animal with nocturnal tendencies. I’d lived on caffeine (more than usual), the occasional cigarette (bad habit I’d picked up from my aunt), and a ridiculously stupid number of crackers (ugh). I still can’t look at a pack of them without my stomach twisting.

“We’re already stretched thin, and you’re the best we have in architecture and engineering who is also unoccupied,” Reeve says, lowering his eyes to the documents spread out along the desk. “You know the cities in ways others don’t. You’ve lived in the slums. I’m asking you because you’re the only person I’m sure will at least try. You always say it’s not worth it unless it’s a challenge. Well, here you are.”

I scoff at him. “There’s a difference between a healthy challenge and an attempt at godlike odds,” I counter, crossing my arms. “I’m grateful for the faith in my abilities, but it’s misplaced. You and your WAMPA can go look somewhere else.

The corner of one of his eyes twitches. “It’s W _RO_. So you’re giving up, then? You won’t even consider it?”

“Do I look like I’m made out of gil?” I say, holding my arms out entreatingly. I know what’s visible isn’t immediately respectable. Denim. Worn leather jacket. Vest. Gloves. Maybe world-weary. But not respectable. “And let’s say, hypothetically—”

“—hypothetically…?”

I don’t like the smirk on his face.

“Anyway. _Hypothetically_ ,” I emphasize before going on, “that you somehow scraped together the dough for this operation. Let’s say—”

“—still hypothetically?”

“—shut up and let me finish—and _yes,_ still hypothetically—that you magically were able to conjure all the men I’d need for this project to work. What would happen after that?”

Reeve purses his lips in thought. “Then I’d gather a crew dedicated to the protection of you and your men. I’d partition the rest of my forces between the guarding and rebuilding of Edge and security details and entourages for you. I’d let you have your pick of professionals and then supervise whatever forays you’d make into Midgar to retrieve salvage.”

I look at him for a moment. “Full jurisdiction? Total control?”

“Total control.”

Of course. He’s probably thought all of this out ahead of time, how to make the prospect most attractive to me. “…And I know I keep coming back to this, but just how would you fund this behemoth of an undertaking?”

Reeve laughs lightly. “I have my ways. I’m a careful man. I never use everything I’ve got.”

I whistle low. “If the digits I saw on those extrapolation charts aren’t your _everything_ , I think I’d have a stroke looking at your bank account’s balance.”

He leans back in his chair. “Good thing you won’t be seeing it any time soon, then. Having worked for Shinra has its perks. At times.”

I feel one of my brows raise at him questioningly. “Like my dearest aunt says, ‘once Shinra always Shinra.’”

Laughter again. “They certainly like to make people think so. Keeps employment rates up. Even now.”

“Not everyone’s got your advantages,” I say, almost accusatory. “You may have had to run, but we’re _still_ running. We always will be.”

“You don’t have to run forever,” Reeve says carefully, as though I don’t know where this is going. “Maybe if you made your intentions known, stood with the WRO openly, they’d leave you and your family alone. They have no room for nonsense after the whole mess with Deepground.”

“That’s what it comes down to, is it?” I exclaim. It’s a miracle I haven’t popped out of my seat like a jack-in-the-box yet. “‘Help me or Shinra will keep dogging you and your people.’ Did you practice in front of a mirror, or what?”

He smiles a cryptic smile. “Maybe.”

I shrug and then put my hands together in an imitation of him. I look him in the eyes, considering my next words, and then start slow. “And what if this backfires? Suppose I do take you up on your crazy offer and resign myself to camping out in the ruins for however long you want me to play leader, and then nothing comes of it except having a reputation for associating with the WRO. Will we have to move again because of harebrained idea gone wrong? Or is your protection _not_ going to evaporate the minute this thing is over?”

The last trace of Reeve’s smile fades away. “When I left Shinra behind, I also abandoned their traditions. You know me better than that.”

I scowl at him. “Do I? Because I’ve got a long list of people who’ve taken what they wanted and then walked out the minute I asked for something back.”

“Neither I nor the WRO are less or more than anything we say. If you help us, you’re one of us. And we take care of our own.”

“I don’t do volunteer work,” I say quietly. He knows I can’t afford it.

Reeve nods. “Never asked you to. You’d be paid upfront. Half before, half after, like the papers say.”

“I’d want someone to watch my house. Mom lives alone.”

“Done and done,” he says with solid confidence. “I don’t think they’d try anything. They have too much on their hands. Perhaps you underestimate your importance.”

I give him another one of my thoughtful looks. “Erring on the side of caution is how I’ve survived this long. Paranoid and alive is better than careless and dead. I wouldn’t want anything hanging over my head if I _did_ decide to work for you.”

“Understandable,” he says, watching me attentively. Reeve has one of those stares that unnerves you the longer he looks at you. At first it doesn’t seem really intimidating, but after a while of him not blinking it gets incredibly uncomfortable. Luckily for him, I’m not one to shy away from any sort of confrontation. If you believe my aunt’s account of my personality, you could say I thrived on it.

“And who would be at the head of the cordons around camp? Anyone I know?”

“There’s only a handful of people I’d trust with either your life or mine,” Reeve continues, folding his hands again. “I think you can predict what I’m going to say.”

“No,” I answer stubbornly. I draw back, curling into myself, feeling the bitterness welling in my throat. “Not them.”

“Are you acquainted with anyone better than the saviors of Midgar to oversee the safety of the renewal of Edge?”

“There have to be others,” I say, a frown forming on my face. “Out of all the trillions of people available, you’d have me stuck in a construction site for _months_ with the only two of them in this city that came from the same crapsack, backwater town as I did?”

“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”

I snort. “You’re right. It was worse. I don’t want anything to do with heroes or the press. Besides, wherever your buddies go, imminent destruction of this planet usually follows. There will be no rebuilding Edge after another Bahamut SIN.”

“That was a one time thing.”

“As was a mad ex-SOLDIER, the Geostigma, Deepground, and all that.”

“You’re acting like it was their fault.”

I shake my head. “No. I just don’t like being reminded that I’m not a hero.”

“I’m giving you the chance to be.”

“If you haven’t heard, one of my many talents is recurrent disappointment. It may be an affliction, depending on who you ask. This won’t be an exception.”

He smiles, for the second time today, but now it’s soft and nearly sad. “Lily’s not right about everything.”

“Hearing her tell it is a very different story,” I say, looking away. I hate pity. I actually almost hate it as much as my aunt.

“Tifa wonders why you don’t visit. Would seeing her again be so bad?” he returns. Doesn’t miss a beat, this one.

I heave a sigh. “Haven’t _you_ ever been unable to look someone in the eye?”

Reeve doesn’t give any indication that he’s heard me. “Maybe this is the break you need. You’ve been away from home, you’ve seen things. You’re different now. This is the last step. Admit it. You’d love being in charge.”

“You have no concept of giving up,” I say in wonder, marveling at his dogged persistence. “Are things really that bad?”

A grave expression flickers over his features. He turns to look out the window of his office, and the afternoon sun highlights the boldness of his profile. Reeve’s always been a good-looking man. It’s not hard to understand what Lily saw in him—superficially, anyway. That one wouldn’t know a good man even if he fell on her out of the goddamn sky.

“More than you can imagine,” he begins, moving his attention back to me. “The refugee camps are full to bursting. We still don’t have a definite estimate of the dead and injured. Hundreds missing. More gone forever, probably. Hospitals are overwhelmed. And after the liberation of the Deepground experimentation prisons underground, we have more possibly contagious or aggressive subjects than we know what to do with. Look at me right now and tell me you don’t want to help after hearing that come from me.”

“Appealing to the humanitarian in me, are we?” I grouse. I cross my legs, irritated, because my resolve is weakening. What’s my discomfort compared to the poverty of hundreds? And if I get paid to do it…

“You wouldn’t have to see Tifa or Cloud any more than absolutely necessary,” Reeve says, reassuring. He’s great at doing that. Probably why he’s held onto being the frontrunner of WRO for so long. He’s charismatic and warm, stern and giving in turns, a savvy businessman but not selective with his charity. He balances pragmatism and idealism very well. Better than me, anyway. I’m more a glass half-empty kinda girl. I mull over what he’s just told me before responding.

“You are a pain in my ass, Mr. Reeve Tuesti.”

“But a handsome one.”

“My ass is handsomer,” I say offhandedly, pursing my lips. “You are going to owe me _so_ fucking big-time. I hope you realize that.”

“I always know what I’m walking into. Helps in my line of work,” he remarks. “So… is that a yes?”

I scowl at him. “Do you need me to say it explicitly?”

“It’d be nice.”

“Fine. I’m in.”

 

* * *

 

 

“You have to get out.”

My breath rushes out of me in frustration as I watch Mom pour me a cup of coffee. “I can’t,” I say while she pushes it over to me across the table. It’s black, strong, and almost unpalatable, but that’s what keeps me coming back. I guess I have a thing for lost causes. “It’s a good job, with good pay. More than enough to keep us going for a year—maybe more.”

Mom’s pretty, light brown hair moves around her face as she shakes her head. “I don’t care. We can get by. You’ve _just_ gotten back from the Canyon. I want you to stay close.”

“I’m not going to be that far away,” I say weakly, opening my hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Just over at the Midgar ruins.”

“Everything over there is dangerous! The reactors are wrecked. There’s free-flowing mako in all places. There are fiends and thieves and Gaia knows what else lurking around every corner. You could get sick. You could—”

“Mom,” I interrupt her after I take my first sip. “Reeve’s got it sorted out. We won’t be working anywhere near the labeled danger zones. And if we stumble on a new one, there are ways to counteract mako poisoning now—ways to prevent it from happening in the first place. We’d be helping. You’ve said yourself that the soup kitchens are a nightmare. Besides, I can look out for myself just fine.”

I can’t believe I’m defending this when less than two hours ago I was mulishly resisting Reeve’s attempts to get me to work with him. I blame the money.

“It’s been almost two whole years since you’ve been home for more than a week,” Mom says, sitting down opposite me.

I’ve been alive long enough to remember what she was like when her hair wasn’t greying at the temples and there weren’t perpetual dark circles under her eyes. Some people age. Others deteriorate. There’s a shadow of the beauty I knew when I was younger in her still, but she’s never taken care of herself. She’d forego things like makeup and nice dresses to give me everything I ever wanted. Dad was a freelance artist and jack of all trades, and she owned a café. We weren’t affluent by any stretch of the imagination, but we were alright. I didn’t lack in anything, and I was happy. Until I grew up and realized just how small my world was, anyway.

That seems like it was an entire lifetime ago.

“I know,” I tell her, reaching out and grasping her hand in mine. When did she become the supported and I the supporter? My hands look dark and sun-browned in comparison to hers. “But I’m home now, and I can’t sit still and watch people suffer.”

“The last time you tried to help _you nearly died_ ,” she says, her fingers tightening around my wrist.

Yeah, about that—contracting Geostigma was no fun. The fever, the sores, the bruising… the blood. I’d thought it’d be the end of me. And it almost was. One day I’d just passed out, thinking I’d never open my eyes again, but I woke up floating on sweet-tasting water in my nightshirt. No pain. No illness. No black bubbles boiling in my lungs. My mom had cried when they’d dragged me out of the church pool, clutching me to her chest though I soaked her shirt right through, saying over and over that she’d thought she’d lost me. We’re all each other’s got.

I can’t think about the fear of losing her. I won’t.

“There’s no Geostigma now,” I say in my rarely-used soft voice. My coffee’s getting cold. “I’m a big girl, Mom. I have to do this.”

She looks at me with watery eyes and then lifts my hands to press a kiss to the back of my knuckles. “There’s no dissuading you when you set your mind or something. You’re impossible.”

“And you’re the best mom ever,” I reply, squeezing back. “I’ll call often. You might even be allowed to drive out to see when we get settled in.”

She gazes down at the table. “How long is this going to take?”

“I don’t know,” I say honestly, shrugging. “We’re looking at the recovery of an entire city. There’s so much that needs to be done. This is going to be a huge undertaking. It could go on for years.”

Mom makes a disappointed sound.

“Hey, hey, I’ll still be closer than I was when I was at the Canyon,” I say in hopes of lightening her mood a little. “I may not be under this roof but I’ll be within reach. That’s gotta be worth something, right?”

“I… suppose I’ll take what I can get.” She pats my hands. “My pretty, silly little girl. You were always so determined.”

I roll my eyes. “Gee, thanks.”

“Hush. Now drink up, or it’s going to get disgusting.”

 

* * *

 

 

I drive out to the site next morning at six.

Bright and early means peace and solitude. There’s nothing better than being able to hear yourself think without the clamor of other people around you. I like people, contrary to popular belief—just in doses. At a distance. And usually behind walls.

Teamwork isn’t my forte. I don’t expect that’ll change anytime soon… if it ever will. I’ve been the odd one out for as long as I can remember.

I never had the effortless sort of warmth and kindness that endeared so many people to Tifa, nor even the earnest shyness of Cloud, who skulked at the back of class because he was too bashful to move up front. I was too brash to be considered just honest, too irritable to be called personable, and too candid to be someone it was pleasant to spend time with. I was always in the shadow that kids like them cast, who made friends wherever they went and took to growing up like ducks take to water. I lingered behind, remaining sullen when others opened up and sticking stubbornly to my own strange traditions, clinging to my habits like my life depended on it. Maybe it did.

To Tifa’s credit, she’d tried. She had no ulterior motive, and nothing to gain from hanging out with me, except perhaps grief. But Chloe at twelve had no idea, and she’d thought everyone was out to get her. Chloe At Twelve had refused all overtures of friendship. Quite meanly, might I add. Tifa had accepted it with the grace of someone that did not act three years my junior, and always treated me politely afterward despite it.

By the time I was old enough to understand I’d been an asshole about it, I felt too horrible to properly apologize. Saying sorry is something I’m bad at. Probably has to do with the ten-foot pole I have up my ass.

When Nibelheim went up in flames, I hadn’t been on the best terms with most of the town. Sometimes I stay up at night and wonder if I would have felt any better afterward if most of my neighbors hadn’t died angry at me. They’d still be dead, regardless.

Reeve had informed me yesterday that it wouldn’t be a good idea to go anywhere early because things had just been cleared the day before and the only ones present would be provisional staff setting stuff up. It was perfect. I’ll need the time to scout the place out anyway, get to know the ins and outs and familiarize myself with the hole I’ll be calling home. I’d packed the night beforehand, generously. Living out in the middle of nowhere in Cosmo Canyon teaches you a few things about long-term packing, and hones the finer parts of your sense of requirement.

I arrive at exactly six fifty-two AM, and park my old pickup just outside the first stretch of pitched tents. I hop out, foregoing my luggage and start walking toward the men in WRO uniforms I can see unpacking some cargo by the biggest tent in the area. They don’t notice me until the soles of my boots scuff up some rocks. The first guy nearly drops what he’s holding when he sees me.

“Miss Browne!” he squeaks. So I’m not safe from being recognized. Great. “We didn’t think you’d be here at this time!”

“It’s alright,” I tell him, already tired.

“B-but nothing’s ready,” he goes on, stammering. “None of the supervisors have arrived and we’re still putting up the last of the tents and the equipment’s not been calibrated yet—”

I hold up my hands. “Hey, kid. Slow down. What’s your name?”

“Gared, sir. I mean, ma’am! _Miss!_ ”

“Gared. I don’t care about the supervisors, or the equipment, or that no one’s here yet. Don’t worry. I don’t need much to go on, but if I’m going to be running this, I want to know everything there is to know before starting to make any big decisions,” I say at a pace I hope is not going to trip him up. He looks tens of years younger than me, with tousled black hair and wide, dark eyes.

“Yes, miss.”

“And cut it with the miss,” I correct him, and he actually flinches though my tone isn’t reprimanding. “Call me Chloe or Browne or whatever you like. Just… no titles. Okay?”

“Understood,” he says, composure tense. Is he alright?

“Anything I should know right off the bat?” I ask them both. The silent worker appraises me for a bit and then opens his mouth to speak.

“The only high-ranking officer other than you here at the moment is our Head of Security.”

Interest piqued. “Oh?”

“She should be somewhere—”

“—around _here!_ ” proclaims a new and very female voice just as something slams into the workers from behind. It takes me a few seconds to realize it’s a person and not an attacking fiend, one who has their respective arms slung around the shoulders of both of the workers who have to bend to accommodate her short stature. “Yuffie Kisaragi, great ninja and legendary warrior, at your service!”

I look at her, this girl that’s grinning widely from ear to ear, dimples dotting her cheeks—she’s got a pretty, round face, fine, black hair, and markedly Wutaian features. The badge of the WRO gleams proudly on her right shoulder, and she’s thin enough to make me look like a bodybuilder. I’ve seen enough of her on the news to know exactly who she is.

“Charmed,” I say dryly, watching her giggle and knock the heads of the workers together affectionately. “I’m Chloe Browne.”

“So _you’re_ the hotshot engineer lady who’s gonna boss us all around, huh?” she asks and narrows her eyes at me. I don’t like what I see in them. Curiosity always leads to bad things. Rough things. _Inconvenient_ things. “Have we by any chance… met before?”

She’s sharp.

“Don’t think so,” I say after a pause of fake deliberation. “I just have one of those faces.”

The last time Yuffie had seen me in person I’d been emaciated, ravaged by the long months of Geostigma, and on death’s doorstep. I’m surprised she even caught on at all.

“Hm,” she says thoughtfully, and releases the workers to stick out a hand in offering to me. “Looking forward to working with you!”

I reach in her direction, fully intending on returning the handshake, but the second before our fingers touch she pulls away and gives me a light rap on the knuckles before laughing loudly and skipping off. “Too slow! See you la-ter!”

She did _not_ just... My intentions must have shown clearly on my face because all Gared offers is a nervous-sounding “haha” before slinking away to do more cargo-lifting. _Too slow my foot_. My hand drops to my side, untouched.

This is going to be a long day.


	2. silent edge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edited 22/NOV/2017.

* * *

 

**[ v ] εγλ – 0010, AUGUST,** **  
** **MONDAY, 0720 HOURS**

 

* * *

 

The tent they’ve put me in is large and breezy—it might as well be military-issue for its size, and it makes me feel adequately in charge even though there’s no one in camp to be in charge of. Yet.

I unpack quickly —something you learn over the space of a few years, if you travel a lot. I used to be the biggest slob, the bane of my mother’s existence. That had effectively ended the day I came back to find every piece of  _ anything _ lying out of place sorted in trash bags out the front, with my mom hauling them into the dumpster.  _ If you treat your things like garbage, I will too,  _ she’d told me. It really did wonders for my desire to be organized.

See, I’m the closest you can get to being a miser and packrat without actually breaching that thin line dividing the creepy weirdness and logical feelings of possession. To say my room had been a  _ lair _ would be a gross understatement. It’d been more like a Gongagan mole rat den. 

I’m brushing my teeth and sorting through a pile of maps I brought with me from the WRO headquarters when the cellphone in my pant pocket rings. Between the whirring of the toothbrush and the blur of the information I see on the map legend, it’s not an easy thing to wheedle the mobile out of my pocket. I manage, somehow, anyway, and hold it in place between my shoulder and cheek after I’ve accepted the call. 

“Herro?” I say through a mouthful of toothpaste. “’Hloe Browne heyah.” 

“Good morning,” Reeve’s voice says from the other end of the line. “You sound occupied.” 

“Yesh, ha ha, very fuhnny, we’re all laffing,” I drawl and continue scrubbing at my teeth with dedication. No one gets in the way of the upkeep of my oral hygiene. “What ish it you wahnt?” 

“Just calling to check up on you,” he says, sounding perfectly cheerful for a man who’s awake at twenty past seven. “I heard you’d arrived early so I thought I’d ring you up and ask you what you think of things so far.” 

“Wurd getsh around fasht,” I remark and work harder at my molars. “I hafen’t sheen enough to shay for shure, really.” 

“Please spit your toothpaste out,” Reeve pleads. “Picturing you with a frothing mouth isn’t quite the mental image I’d like to have in mind for my chief engineer.”

“Foine,” I concede with no lack of grumpiness and stomp over to the makeshift sink set up in the corner of my tent. A few seconds later I’ve rinsed everything out and thrown my toothbrush into the glass on the sink, trading it out for the fluffy towel I’d brought from home. I wipe my face clean of the moisture and grasp at the cellphone with one hand, now free to do so. “Here you are. Better?” 

“Much,” he says, relieved. “So what’s your opinion of the site?” 

“Like I said, I haven’t scouted out much,” I say and shrug despite the fact that he can’t see me. “Just moved in. Getting settled. Place is quiet. Good vantage point. I’m looking at some of the maps here—we’ve got a lot of open pathways to some grounds that should give us access to plenty of relatively undamaged material. I saw a collapsed portion of the Plate on the way here that looks promising.” 

I hear Reeve chuckle over our connection. “And you were worried you weren’t right for the job.” 

“That is yet to be seen,” I tell him, sniffing. “I may just quit. The day’s young, and I’m a diva.” 

A second chuckle. “I know that when you put yourself on a path there’s very little anyone can do to make you stray. I think you’ll be surprised at how easily you’ll fall in place.” 

“Okay, okay,” I say, flipping to the second map beneath the one I’m perusing, my eyes trailing the detailed roads and wondering which ones are yet uncharted. “You’ve already drafted me into the cause, no need to rub it in.” 

“What can I say? I do like being victorious.” He pauses there, as though he’s considering whether to speak his final thoughts. “You’re a good woman, Chloe. It’s time someone else other than I saw that.” 

Even if he’s not with me in the same room, the compliment makes me squirm. 

Praise and I have never gotten along. Maybe it’s because I spent my entire childhood and a good part of my adolescence under the chiding and disapproval of almost all my elders. Maybe it’s because I dislike myself so much that I can’t imagine anyone ever really being fond of me or seriously picking out anything other than flaws in who and what I am. I can take a hit —verbal or otherwise.  Compliments? Nothing in the archives between my ears knows how to deal with them. 

“Sure,” is all I manage to say in the end, feeling a familiar trickle of discomfort edge down my spine. “Listen, I—should probably get back to it. I… want to know my way around before anyone else gets here.”

Part of the reason I still talk to Reeve is because he knows when to let a subject drop. When I first met him, what seems like a lifetime ago, I was stoutly convinced that he was an opportunistic prick. Anyone who was colleagues with my aunt usually was. Pieces of work, every one of them. Reeve, in stark contrast, has been the only positive factor that’s come out of LIly’s association with Shinra. A point of light in a sea of oily dark. Probably the influence I needed after Dad died in Nibelheim —something steady to hold onto, while everything else around me went to shit.

I didn’t let him pay my tuition, or for my internship at the Canyon. I’d already leaned on him too heavily for my pride to allow it, but he’d always been there, silently, prepared to offer support. I don’t know what it is that endeared and continues to endear me to him. I can’t think of anything he’d gain by continuing to associate with me. I try not to dwell on it —the answers aren’t something I’d enjoy.

I know this much: I don’t want to disappoint him. 

“Alright, then,” Reeve says pleasantly. “I’ll call later.” 

“Wait. Reeve?” 

“Yes?” 

I look down at my scuffed boots, like that’ll help me conjure up the words more competently. 

“Thanks. For giving me the opportunity.” 

There’s silence on the other end for a good moment before he replies. I must have surprised him.

“It’s always a pleasure. Good luck.”

“Yeah. Bye.” 

I end the call with a click and stare at the cellphone in my open palm for a bit. That had almost been affectionate of me. I must be getting old. I take my seat on the edge of my cot, reaching for the brush on my nightstand.

While I pull my hair out of its customary braid and go about combing all the snags out, I think about what to do. 

The rest of the crew should start trickling in at about nine or ten, which leaves me with around four or more hours of exploration and snooping. Ample time to do whatever I want to and to become acquainted with the pitfalls of the site, maybe poke around some of the salvage I saw on the way in. I’m well aware of my own obsession with detail. I would pick through every single grain of sand on a beach if I thought there was a reasonable chance of finding something worthwhile. 

I run my free hand through my hair. It’s gotten long again—past my elbows, thick, but mostly straight. I don’t have to deal with any of the trademark corkscrew curls my father inherited from his family. I won’t be seeing the inside of a barber shop any time soon, though. Knots taken care of, I pull it back into another braid, and I’m left to look around the tent again.

It’s roomy and full of light, and the canvas of it overhead rustles whenever there’s a particularly strong breeze. It’s a familiar sound, since I lived out in tents for most of my time in Cosmo Canyon. They’ve laid down a strong linen carpeting that is probably proofed for any sort of disaster that exists within the realm of possibility, and coupled with the sparseness my personal taste demands, everything in here looks blindingly clean and ordered. Especially the sink and its respective mirror.

The map and planning table sits squarely in the center of the tent (I know, I checked), there are rows of unoccupied shelves around the desk that the workers have moved in for me, and a glowstone lamp hangs from the pole at the focal point of the room. All in all, going to be an agreeable place to do my work in, and not hard to get used to. Satisfied with the final estimation of my quarters, I slide into my jacket and make my way out, brushing past the flaps of the tent and stepping into the cool morning air. 

The sun’s peaked over the horizon, and the resulting light has turned the saturation up on everything. What looked grey and bleak before is now brown and yellow—signs of the desert, the no-man’s land all around the ruins of what used to be Midgar. It’s a desolate place. Sad, if you’re the type of person that looks at horror that human bullshit has caused and thinks it’s poetic or poignant, or something equally ridiculous.

I find my way back to the parking lot easily enough, and make a beeline for my pickup truck. It’s old and battered and the baby blue paint is chipped in places, but it still works well and climbs over uneven terrain better than most ATVs I’ve ever come across, and I’ve ridden my fair share of them. I yank on the back to unhitch the ramp and stand back as it falls, thudding against the ground. I stare appreciatively at the bike waiting for me. There she is.

“Hey, baby,” I croon to her as I jump up, running my palms down the handlebars. 

They’ve been shaped to my hands by years of use—I built her mostly myself, using scraps and spare bits I’d scrape together during my part-time jobs, and I’d bought the skeleton at some blowout garage sale that had it going for a stupidly low price. Other people see junk where I see treasure. Sure enough, after a few months of trial and error, many startups gone wrong, and a few accidents (one which ended in me hitting a telephone pole at fifteen miles per hour and flying at half that speed into a neighbor’s scraggly garden patch), I’d succeeded at making it work. 

I’ve learned a few things since then, to say the least, and what started as a ramshackle experiment had quickly turned into the only project I had the spirit to tinker with when I wasn’t sleeping, working, or  _ trying _ to sleep. My free time was consumed with making the bike better and faster, and the few days I had off were when I was able to take her out and test her hands-on—some of the best experiences in my living memory are thanks to her.

She’s sturdy but slim, with an arcing seat made for comfort and long-distance rides; twin wheels in front, and one big baby in the back that gives her a characteristic rise of height you don’t see in a lot of vehicles. 

The throttle system, however, is a favorite part of mine. It’s dually operated—handlebar and pedal. If I have to free my hands to do something, I can still accelerate and maneuver without needing to grab at the bars for control and vice versa. There’s only one other bike capable of that kind of movement, and that ride went out of my hands a long time ago. 

In retrospect, I should have probably predicted that selling a bike like that to someone who wasn’t an enthusiast would end with the vehicle being sold—and to someone who could properly put the engine through its paces. The thought of a resale hadn’t bothered me, but the person that second bike went to was an irony I hadn’t found funny. At all.

Either way, toward the end of my last year in Edge, I had my own, not-for-sale-and-never-will-be bike painted and outfitted for the trip to the Canyon. Used her often to scout out dig sites and make quick supply runs between camps. She’s the perfect all-terrain vehicle, and drives like a dream—which, honestly, was to be expected, but bears mentioning.

In a considerate and understated beige, she’s difficult to spot in landscapes full of rock and minerals, and I believe it won’t be any different for the Midgar wastelands. I spend another few moments appraising her proudly before I take the goggles hanging limply on one of the handlebars and pushing the bike forward until her front wheels hit the start of the ramp. 

“Miss Browne!” 

Oh, for the love of—

“What is it, Gared?” I ask as I jog down the ramp to avoid being pulled along by the bike, the weight of which I most definitely can’t halt if it decides to get going. Gared stops in front of me, hands on his knees, panting.

“Miss Browne,” he says again, looking faintly panicked. “W-where are you going?” 

“Away,” I reply vaguely as I snap the goggles over my head, adjusting them against my forehead. “I want to see some things for myself before there are any  _ more _ people around to disagree.” 

“But the primary security detail isn’t here yet!” he tells me as if that’s going to make a difference. I walk to the front of my truck and pop the door to the driver’s seat while he continues enumerating his grievances. I slam the compartment on the dashboard open and take the pouch in there, move back, shut the door, and hear Gared wheeze as I fasten my pistol holsters to my thighs.

“Never seen firearms before?” I say at the gaping expression on his face and then put one leg over the side of my bike, proceeding to slide in place and sit properly in the saddle. Wow, it feels like it’s been entirely too long since I did this. 

“I have!” he exclaims with no lack of indignance, my question having apparently snapped him out of whatever had been stopping him from speaking. “You can’t go anywhere without a proper escort.  _ Miss Browne! _ ”

I ignore him as I pull the goggles down over my eyes. “I’ve driven out to some of the most dangerous deserts on the Planet with no bodyguards. Couldn’t afford it. This isn’t the first time. It’s going to take a while for me to get used to how things run around here, and I’d rather spend the beginning of it alone before being plunged into months of thankless work that will probably involve more responsibility than I ever wanted to deal with. Any questions?” 

He looks at me with fear in his gaze and gulps, once, very loudly. 

“Don’t look so scared,” I say, laughing. “I’ll be back in a few hours.” 

“What if something attacks you?” he says and turns his eyes down to the ground. 

“I’ll kill it dead,” I return and pat my holsters. “Failing that, just know that this baby clocks in at around two hundred and fifty-three miles per hour and makes a sixty of that in just under three seconds. I should be fine running away from anything that doesn’t have a motorbike too.” Fiends on motorbikes. Terrifying. “You okay, kid? You’ve gone green.” 

“That’s really fast,” is all he says. 

“Nothing like it,” I say with a smile, digging into one of the pockets of my vest. He stares at me while I pull my gloves on and doesn’t move back when I curl my hands around the handlebars. “You, ah, may wanna step back a bit.” 

He stammers in surprise and does as he’s told… and then I hit the ignition and twist the throttle. The bike roars to life all around me though her being an electric means she doesn’t have as much clatter and sputter as some of the old world models, thoughI love her all the same. Gared startles at the noise and I grin at him and lean forward into the sweep of the vehicle, feeling the engine rumble against my legs. 

“Behave while I’m gone!” I remind him, and the second time I give a twist the bike jumps and starts and kicks up dust as her tires scream against the hard ground—with a swerve and a kickoff, she carries me away into the light of the rising sun. The wind tears my hair back and the tails of my vest slap at my arms and waist. 

It feels  _ good _ . 

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, apparently racing through the badlands at about a hundred seventy MPH was just what I needed. 

I stop a few times to climb atop favorable rocks that are adequate lookouts, get a feeling for the lay of the land. There are tons more pieces of wreckage around the northeastern part of the newly-made desert than I first thought there would be. By the time I start heading back, plans and estimates are already swirling through my head. We’re going to need at  _ least _ a week or two to make a catalogue of everything we need and prioritize sections of the salvage—there are definitely sectors of Edge that need more help most than others. The slums and ghettos are still recovering from the Deepground assaults.

In truth, they haven’t really had enough time to recuperate from the Geostigma. I should know. My mom was only able to move out of the slums with the funds I brought home from the Canyon (and minimal, but crucial, help from Reeve), and that into a tiny house. But anything was better than what we had. Anything. 

You don’t really know what grateful means, not really. Not until you lose it all. Not until you’ve clocked into work with a forty degree fever, or gone to bed for the fifth night in a row without dinner. Not until you fall asleep standing up, and the fear rules every part of you. I would do anything before letting us return to a life like that. Anything.

The only thing the Plate falling accomplished was bringing that kind of miserable existence to the surface. It’s all so easily visible now.

The nearing outline of the camp is a sobering sight. Even this far away I can see that the parking lot is now full with an array of cars, old and new, and all with trunks piled high with equipment and the telltale light canvas of extra tents. I try to focus on the quiet whir of my bike and the sound of the pebbles being thrown by her wheels clicking against the ground, but it doesn’t do much against the rising anxiety.

Two minutes later I’m pulling into camp, feeling a swell of disappointment when I have to hit the brakes and come to a stop. She doesn’t make a sound when she powers down, except for murmur of her slowing cylinders. I rub at the depressions the goggles have left around my eyes when I take them off, and hide them away under the detaching seat after I stand up and pull the saddle free. I don’t forego my pistols. Their weight is comforting, something familiar that I want to concentrate on now.

I peel off my gloves and leave them in the case as well, and then shut it, listening for the clack that tells me the saddle’s locked into place. Sighing, I flip the ignition switch to  _ off _ , stuff a hand into one of my many pockets, and fish out my cellphone. The glowing numbers on the screen read 10:25 AM. You’d think more than three hours out in the field would have given me time to come to terms with the fact that I wouldn’t be working alone. 

Nope. 

“You’re finally back!”

Thankfully, he can’t see my face, so I have time to compose myself before I turn around.

“I thought about running away, but decided you’d miss me too much,” I say, pokerfaced, and he gives a strangled gasp. “…That was a joke.” 

He doesn’t have the time to ask me another question before none other than the head of security bops along, looking for all intents and purposes like a freewheeling teenager instead of a national hero. She comes to a stop right in front of me, and her eyes immediately focus on my bike. She whistles appreciatively and rocks back on her heels. 

“Nice set of wheels!” she says, and my nose twitches. 

“Thanks,” I say back and hope my voice doesn’t sound too cautious.

“Looks  _ just  _ like a paler Fenrir,” Yuffie continues, and I feel my teeth grit together. “Wow, it’s uncanny!” 

“Well, she’s not,” I respond testily.

“‘She?’” Yuffie says and tilts her head to the side. 

I roll my sleeves up and retie my hair. “Yeah. Her mark is Tyr, and I made her from the bottom up. From scratch.” 

Yuffie just laughs at the burr in my voice and grins brightly. “Possessive, huh?” 

More than she knows. I’m busy planning escape routes when Yuffie turns around and waves excitedly at someone I can’t see. 

“Tifa! Tifa, over here!  _ Hi! _ ” 

Oh, no. Cold rushes all the way down to my toes and bubbles in my stomach. I don’t trust my mouth. Or anything on my face, for that matter.

Tifa walks with a poised simplicity that’s only gotten prettier with age. Her dark hair’s been drawn away from her face, leaving the delicate features there on perfect display. She’s really always been the loveliest girl around.

“Hey,” my once-neighbor says to Yuffie as she approaches, smiling kindly. I wouldn’t be surprised if they canonized her one day. “Sorry for getting here late. Marlene called and I didn’t want to cut it short.” 

“Don’t worry!” Yuffie assures her. “I’m certain Boss doesn’t mind.” 

“Don’t call me that,” I mutter.

“Sure thing, Boss!” 

I swear I’m going to kick something. 

“…Chloe?” 

I wince and rub at the back of my neck. A nervous habit. I look anywhere but Tifa, instead pretending to be interested in the WRO soldiers unloading tents from the back of a gigantic truck. “Yeah. Hi.” 

“What are you doing here?” she asks, not impolitely. I’m not sure she could be. Impolite, that is. 

I sigh. “Reeve called me in. Said that the situation took a turn for the worse after the business with Deepground. He thought I could help.”

“So  _ you’re _ the surprise he was talking about,” Tifa says, shaking her head. “Good. I was worried the person in charge would be someone we didn’t know.” 

Yuffie blinks in confusion. “Wait. You two know each other?”

“We used to be neighbors back in Nibelheim,” Tifa explains before I can say anything. She looks much the same she did the last time I saw her—fresh-faced, eyes like teak, dressed smartly in a monochromatic number that flatters her own natural colors. She’s always had an effortless way of blending utility and style.

“That depends on your definition of knowing,” I say, wiping errant strands of my hair back from my face. 

“You look well,” Tifa remarks. “I’m glad.”

“Yeah, I guess. Thanks.” 

“Cloud’s here too, if you want to say hello…” 

The thought of another awkward reunion—one not cushioned by Tifa’s gift with social graces—makes me want to hide. If I’m inelegant when it comes to communication, Cloud is nearly non-functional. He’s going to stare, and I’m going to stare back, and it’s all going to be hideously uncomfortable. “We have a lot of work to do. I’m going to head back to my tent and get some charts together for the general debriefing,” I tell her, shoving my hands in my jacket pockets. “Tell everyone to gather at the conference center in fifteen minutes.” 

I catch only a glimpse of the slightly disappointed expression she makes before I turn my back on her and making my way out of the parking lot. I’m not going to let myself feel bad.

“Roger that,” I hear her say sadly and feel my heart plummet.

Ah, shit. 


	3. high-spirited

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edited 23/NOV/2017.

* * *

 

 **[ v ] εγλ – 0010, AUGUST,** **  
** **MONDAY, 1040 HOURS**

 

* * *

 

Public speaking. One of my least favorite things in the world.

It’s pretty near the top of the list of least favorites, actually—and that list is considerably long.

I try not to think about it while I sort through my notes, absorbing any last scraps of data I need to keep in mind before talking to the crew. Many are going to be relying on me in the coming months to come through for them, more than I’ve ever had to deal with. Small-scale dig sites in the obscurest parts of the Canyon don’t exactly prepare you for a government-backed restoration of the _state_. But I’ll do this. I’ll find a way to adapt—I always do.

Two rules for addressing large groups: keep it clear, keep it impersonal. Everything will be fine as long as I stick to them. I didn’t have to be so careful about the last part while I was in the Canyon—everyone knew everyone there, and you’d be surprised at how easy it is to deal with stale drama as opposed to new, evolving conflicts brought on by unfamiliar arrivals. Any rivalries or disputes I found between my coworkers at Canyon dig sites had either long been settled or been too much of a slow-burn to catch my attention.

This is different. The workers are going to number in the hundreds, all of them here for some sort of desperate reason or another. Money, shelter, work, food—stuff you need to survive. Too many people are still struggling to feed their families, if they have any family left. Tensions will be running high for a while, and I’m going to need an objective eye to overlook it all.

I look down at my papers for one last time, and then up at the swaying canvas roof of the tent. No use in delaying it any longer. I stop by the mirror on my way out, smoothing down my vest and self-consciously checking my ponytail for flyaways. I look the same as I always have: tall, wiry, a little too rough around the edges to be blatantly feminine. Mom’s blue-green eyes stare back at me, ringed by dark blonde lashes. Nothing of my features reminds me of Dad—except maybe the jaw, or the sweep of the brows, thick and arched. Mom’s face is soft. Mine isn’t.

Time to go.

My boots do a great job at absorbing the shock of my jolting gait. I walk toward tallest tent in the compound. I’d been inside earlier—it’s something like a war room, complete with tall tables and maps and a gigantic amount of space. I slip in through the back, feeling a momentary tingle of dread when I realize how many men and women stand under the awning of the tent, and even outside. The compound has great acoustics. When they get to be silent, they’ll be able to hear me, every last one of them—down to the people at the back. I scan the crowd for familiar faces.

Tifa is standing at the side of the tent, to the left of the table, Yuffie by her. They’re talking animatedly about something I can’t make out at this distance, and at Tifa’s right is none other than Cloud Strife. I haven’t seen him this close, in person, for at least a year. He’s always been a quiet guy, that Cloud, happier to watch than to participate. The surly childishness he’d been known for is now all but non-existent. We all grow up at some point. I wonder if Tifa’s summoned the courage to ask him to have a go at it yet. They’d been the talk of every Nibelheim resident over forty—meddling grandmothers and grandfathers convinced they could see the future.

God, has it really been that long?

I make my way to the table. No one notices. No one among the workers, anyway. Cloud is the first to react, though it isn’t immediately obvious. He just looks up—sees me, freezes for a moment, and then his eyes widen, ever-so-slightly, in surprise. I guess that they hadn’t told him I was here. I can’t look into the unsettling blue of his irises for long. They'd been striking before, and in childhood, but the mako has made them unnaturally bright. Tifa turns and offers me a smile upon spotting me. I give her an acknowledging wave, which is probably much stiffer than it should be.

Deep breath. Remember to project. Leaning my hands on the table covered with territory maps and blueprints, I clear my throat and raise my voice.

“Hey! Everyone! Eyes on me.”

People go quiet, and turn to face me. I survey the expressions displayed to me—interest, cautious attention, some shock, and a lot of apathy.

“Thanks,” I tell them, glancing down at the maps momentarily. “You all know why we’re here. I’ll spare you a rehash of the details—we’re the cleanup crew. We’re going to be camping out here until we clear what’s left of salvage in the wastelands. We’re going to be covering everything from supply runs, to exploration, to mapping ruins, to making sure the perimeter of the city is secure. To say the least, we’re going to be busy.”

I move my hand from the map, uncovering the landmark it’d been obscuring. Edge. Old Midgar. I shrug out of my vest and let it rest on the tabletop before I look up and continue.

“Name’s Chloe Browne,” I inform them, though it’s probably redundant information. “I’ll be presiding over general affairs and reviewing the machinery we retrieve. I report back to Reeve Tuesti, but you’ve probably guessed that. He’s the one who assigned me to this post and guaranteed your cooperation.” I look back at the map, temporarily lost for words. “I don’t know any of you as half as well as some of you know each other—but I’m going to ask you to trust me. This isn’t going to work unless we’ve got all hands on deck. So—let’s do this. Together.”

I lift my head and let my eyes travel over the congregation of workers again. There’s a multitude of faces there, from hard and square to soft and round, some in between. Young and old. Naive and new, tried and tested. All my responsibility.

“Can’t promise you things are going to be smooth sailing,” I continue, pleased that they’re still listening. “We’re working against the clock. There are refugees out there that needed roofs over their heads yesterday. I’m going to be going full-throttle on this. All in. I expect you to do the same.” I let that sink in for a bit, and as people begin to mutter, I wrap things up. “Onto business. Our first course of action is going to be mapping out the nearest parts of the wreckage, cataloguing anything that isn’t going to need a lengthy extraction, and prioritize the salvage in terms of how valuable it’s going to be for the architects in the city,” I inform them. “The first recovery mission is going to be moving out at twelve o’clock sharp. Be ready. Report to Officer Kisaragi—she’ll assign you to squads and give you your respective objectives. We clear?”

There’s a chorused ‘yes!’ from the crowd, mingling voices of enthusiasm and not-so-much enthusiasm. We’ll see how long that lasts.

Stepping away from the table seems to give everyone the cue to disperse. That had been relatively painless, if somewhat uncomfortable. I’ll fall into my pace soon enough.

I don’t realize I’ve been relaxed until Yuffie bounces into sight in front of me. My shoulders clench in anticipation of an impact that never comes. She stops just short of a hairsbreadth from my nose, rocking back on her heels like a living elastic.

“Great speech,” she says, giving me a huge thumbs up. Does this girl ever sit still? Can she?

“I try,” I return, not having any other reply.

“Not wasting any time in putting us plebs to work, I see,” Yuffie continues and purses her lips. “Any estimates on how many trucks we’re going to need today?”

“Many,” I say without thinking at all. Sarcasm, they say, is the lowest form of wit. Yuffie, however, doesn’t seem to take it negatively. She just laughs loudly and appraises me like she’s looking at me for the first time ever.

“I like you,” she declares after a moment of deliberation.

Alright. I can handle curveballs.

“Not something I hear often,” I admit, but she beams at me. If I tried being half as good-natured, I'd probably disintegrate in the attempt.

“Hey, Tifa,” Yuffie says as the other two approach us. “Your girl is really shaping up. Did you know she got here at _six_? She’s insane! Which is perfect.”

“That’s… early,” Tifa points out helpfully while Cloud pretends to look somewhere over my shoulder. “Is there anything we can do?”

Work. Something I can talk about.

“Not for now,” I tell her, taking my jacket from the table and hanging it over one of my arms. “Though, for future reference—if I’m ever offsite or otherwise engaged, active duty is relegated to you. Kisaragi—”

“Yuffie is fine!”

“…Yuffie can designate her own substitute.” That, oddly enough, makes Tifa smile. Onto the next obstacle—finally tackling the Malboros in the room. “Yo, Cloud. It’s been a while.”

“Ah,” he says, taken off guard. “Yeah. You… look well.”

I give a short bark of laughter—or something that resembles it, anyway. “Tifa said the exact same thing yesterday. Nice to know some things don’t change.”

Both of them cough awkwardly at that. Oh, yeah. Not obvious at all.

“Okay,” Yuffie says slowly, looking between them alternatingly, then stopping to meet my eyes. “I liked you before. Now I _love_ you.”

 

* * *

 

 

The weather is particularly cloudy as I march my way toward the central communal tent in the workers' camp, letting the clamor of raised voices guide me. Only a day into the job and I’m already breaking up a fight. Real good sign. I elbow my way past the people who have gathered around the nucleus of the conflict. Most back down when they realize that I’m the one shoving myself to the front, stepping back and letting me pass. The canvas rustles above our heads.

I tear the problem pair apart with my own hands, standing between them, back to the shorter one, though I haven’t managed to get a real good look at either of them. I focus on the one to my left first, a tall guy with a close-shaven beard of dark brown and a very fresh split lip. The look on my face makes him shut his mouth.

“What the hell is going _on_ here?” I growl.

“Let go of me,” says the woman at my right, and that only makes my hand fist in her shirt tighter. I take the time to observe her, which makes me realize she isn’t really a woman—but more of a girl. And a slip of one, at that. She glares at me with dark eyes, her face creased into a scowl. I glare right back.

“I don’t think so, princess,” I snap at her. “What about you? Your face looks like fire hydrant. Care to explain why you two are at each other’s throats?”

At least he has the tact to look properly chastised. The man wipes at his injury gingerly with the back of one wrist, wincing when he sees it’s bleeding.

Sullen silence. Fuck’s sake, it’s like dealing with children.

“I want names,” I say, pushing them both away and stepping back. “ _Now_.”

“Taggert Ryce,” the guy manages to get out around his fast-swelling lip.

I glare at the girl until she coughs up an answer, if grudgingly.

“Lan Shen.”

Wutaian. Far from home. Young. I cross my arms and give them my best unimpressed stare.

“If you please, then, Miss Shen, Mister Ryce—I’m waiting for that explanation,” I say slowly, voice dripping with warning. They both start talking at the same time. I have clap my hands together loud enough for some people to jump to get them to stop. “We’re going to try this again,” I intone, making sure to sound as venomous as possible. “And if I hear two voices, I’m going to be firing _two_ people today. Let’s not make that happen.”

That makes the Wutaian swallow.

“You,” I say, jabbing a finger at Ryce. “Make your case. You have thirty seconds.”

The apple in his throat bobs as he gulps. “I was just putting my things away inside the communal tent when she marched up to me and started screaming about how I’d stolen something from her. An agenda, or something? I have no idea what she’s talking about.”

“It’s a _journal,_ fuckface, and I _know_ you took it _and_ my allowance—!”

“Remember what I said?” I interrupt. It stops her cold. “That’s right. Ryce, continue.”

“I’ve never seen the damn thing in my life,” Ryce goes on, frowning at Shen as he does so. “I’m no thief. I don’t steal. I’m just here to work. What the hell would I do with a journal or your piss-poor allowance, anyway?”

I look to Shen, eyes lingering at her hip. “Did you actually see him take it?”

“You’re not even letting me explain! He was the last person near my things before I left for break, and it was _gone_ when I came back.”

“I’m pretty sure I can figure out what happened by just listening,” I say. Kind of hard not to, if you have a pair of functioning eyeballs. “Is your journal black with blue pages?”

The anger on Shen’s face melts away into surprise. “I—yeah. It’s exactly like that. How did you know?”

I reach over to her, lift her arm, and pull the object I just described from the pouch hanging at her waist. I dangle it in front of her nose. The tips of a few tattered bills of gil flutter at us from where they're pressed tightly between the pages.

“Look familiar?”

She goes bright scarlet as the people gathered around us burst into raucous laughter.

Humor, I’ve learned, is the best diffuser for these sorts of situations. Doesn’t feel good to be laughed at—but it’s probably better than being out of work. Or being beaten. Hopefully, she’ll realize that at some point. I drop the journal into Shen’s awaiting hands and cross my arms once more. The laughter has died down into trailing giggles and muffled guffaws. Shen stares at her feet. Ryce doesn’t look triumphant. Just tired.

“I think you have something to say to the nice guy who didn’t deck you when you made him bite through his lip,” I remind her, and she winces.

“I’m sorry.”

“Accepted?” I ask Ryce. He shrugs.

“Accepted.”

“Good, because _you_ ,” I say, pointing at Shen again, “are going to be keeping a five foot distance from this man at all times. Pack your things and move to another tent. I don’t care where. Find someone to switch bunks with. You ever start something like this again _without_ irrefutable proof that your worries are substantiated and I am going to have your ass thrown out of here so fast it’ll send your head spinning. You understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” she whispers, and then rushes past me. There are tears welling in her eyes. The crowd parts for her, and then closes in behind her, like the thirsty tide swallows a rock too close to shore.

I sympathize—mostly because I spent half of my adolescence picking fights like the one she’d just lost. It hurts realizing you were categorically wrong—it's even more unpleasant when there's an audience included. Pride and starting bullshit you usually can't finish go hand in hand. You get quieter about it as you get older—in the best-case scenario, anyway. It was stupid for her to jump to conclusions like she did, but she’s a kid, and she’ll probably do it a couple of more times before what just happened will be a good enough reminder to stop her from even trying. She'll smart for a while, maybe even resent me for how I handled it. Nothing I’m a stranger to. Old habits die hard, or something.

“Get back to your business,” I say and make vague shooing gestures with my hands. People start to turn and leave. “Nothing to see here. And Ryce?”

“Ma’am,” he answers, standing straight.

“Thanks for not making it worse.”

He smiles until it crumples under a pained frown because of his lip. “I don’t beat kids, ma’am.”

I sigh, and clap him on the shoulder as I walk by. “Just steer clear of her from now on, alright?”

He shakes his head, like he’s hearing something unbelievable. “Don’t need to tell me twice.”

“Good. Now go get that lip looked at before some other irritable teenager attacks you.”

Ryce laughs as he leaves and then I turn in the opposite direction.

I dig my cellphone out again. Check the time. Twenty to twelve. I should probably go get Tyr prepped. I start walking toward my tent, moving through clumps of people. Eyes follow me as I go. I don’t pay them any mind.

My things are all still in place when I get to my tent, but something’s different—a platter of assorted snacks and pastries is sitting on the planning table, neatly wrapped in cellophane. There’s a yellow note caught under the edge. It comes loose without much effort.

“ _Thought you may need something to eat. No one saw you have breakfast. Enjoy._ — _Tifa.”_

A knot forms in my throat as I’m torn between feeling grateful and giving into the sting of paranoia. Everyone wants something. Don’t they? It doesn’t seem like she does. No. She doesn’t. Tifa has never wanted anything in return, for as long as I’ve known her, even cursorily. She’s just the type of person who does nice things for the sake of being nice. Like leaving breakfast for someone who’s only treated you like garbage consistently over the years. I stare down at the platter, heart sinking. It does look pretty good… and she was right. I haven’t had breakfast. I’d kind of forgotten. As always.

I peel the cellophane away carefully and then pick up a fluffy square of golden dough. I bite into it after giving it an experimental squish, eyebrows shooting up when I realize the inside is full of vanilla custard—my favorite. Probably a coincidence.

Within the next five minutes I’ve chewed through half of the platter’s contents. I have an appetite big enough for a big girl. I’m gnawing on what tastes like dried fruit when I start feeling satisfied at the state of my paperwork. Release forms, waivers, graphs, estimation charts—so many numbers. They’re all starting to swim together in a mess of shapes.I slam the logging book shut and stand, very ready to get going. I’ll go stir-crazy if I don’t do anything with my hands soon. I’m halfway out the tent until I think better of it, backtrack, snatch a few more things from the platter, cover it again, and move on.

People are already getting their trucks ready, getting into their boots, pulling on heavy-duty gloves, and talking excitedly. Some look eager. Others not so much.

I swallow the last piece of my food and wipe my hands down on my pants—before hooking two fingers in my mouth and whistling piercingly. It gets me everyone’s attention immediately. Well—everyone who’s gathered, anyway.

“Listen up!” I say loudly as people gather around. “We’re going to be gearing up and leaving in ten or fifteen minutes. I want you to split up into groups of thirty and assign two people to take rolecall every time we go on salvage missions. You’re going to headcount once before we leave and once after we get back. Any questions?”

The general chorus is “no,” but a few people raise their hands. I point at girl in the front, one with frizzy red hair and a wealth of tan freckles.

“Go ahead.”

“Um,” she says at first, twisting the gloves in her hands. “How far from here are we planning to go?”

I think about it for a moment. “Nothing’s set in stone. We’ll go as far as we need to, but I don’t think we’re going to be doing any out-of-base camping just yet. When we get more firmly established—then, probably, we’ll be dealing with sites an hour, two hours, from here.”

“Thanks.”

“You,” I say. “At the back. Tall, brown hair, glasses. Yeah, you. Something you’re wondering about?”

The man clears his throat. “How many work hours a day can we expect?”

I shrug. “Anywhere from eight to twelve. We’ll be rotating salvage duty teams every week, so you’ll get plenty of rest between digs. Anything else I can clear up for you?” Nobody seems to have more inquiries for me, which is good. I clap my hands together loudly, and some people jump. “Alright, then. Get into your groups, take headcount, and turn in your attendance forms when you’re done. Try not to argue. I’ve had enough of that for today. You got it?”

There’s a rambling “yes” from the workers and then they set off to do what I told them to. No one is crying or screaming for help, so I’ll assume it’ll be okay to get back to my bike. I can see her parked right next to my truck, where I left her this morning. I’m ready to go.

I wrench Tyr’s detachable seat open and reach for my gloves. Maybe I’ll just drive out there ahead of everyone else. That sounds like a good idea. I’m settling on it when I catch sight of Cloud standing over Fenrir. He must have come in later this morning because I haven't gotten a single glimpse of her while I was being busy. I hadn't even known he'd brought her, though it seems like an obvious conclusion to come to. I can’t catch any obvious damage—everything looks like it’s in place. The custom spokes are still there. I personally got those cast for the bike. Left a hole the size of the Northern Crater in my wallet, but I did it. Paint’s smooth and unchipped. No scratches that I can see. Exhausts are intact—so are all my modifications. He really hasn't slacked off on upkeep.

I debate about giving into the urge of interrogating him for a second or two before giving up and stalking in his direction. He looks up when he hears my boots thudding and for a split second something like apprehension races across his features before it evaporates, like it’d never been.

“Yo,” I start, wiggling my fingers at him from where they’re hooked in my jean’s belt loops. “Just wanted to check in.”

“Things are—good,” he replies. He sounds unsure. “Can I help you…?”

“How’re you liking the bike?” I ask.

He blinks at me, puzzled. “…It’s great.”

I hum, appraising the vehicle in question.  “You ever crash her?”

“No,” he says. Now he just looks confused.

“I thought she may have gotten a bit beaten up after all the shit in the last two years, but… she looks awesome,” I remark, letting a small smile curl my lips. “I’m glad.” He doesn’t have a response to that. Suppose there’s no use in dodging around it. I shove my gloves into one pocket and then outstretch my hands to the bike. “May I?”

Cloud stares at me uncertainly, and then takes a tiny step back. “Sure.”

I run my hands along Fenrir’s saddle, fingers searching, and then they hit the button on the underside of the rim. With a pop and a hiss, the seat shoots out and upward. Cloud makes a small startled noise—guess he hadn’t stumbled on that yet. I blow the dust from the rim, coughing when a puff of it hits me right in the face. I wave it off and then wipe the dirt that’s built up in the letters engraved in the metal lining of the seat, digging out the last bit with my nails. Cloud leans over my shoulder, misgivings about personal space forgotten for a second, and I see his brows rise as he looks at the letters under my index finger.

_BY C.B._

Cloud exhales slowly. “Is that—?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Guilty as charged. Did you never wonder why she was unbranded?”

He tilts his head at me. “A couple of times. Guy I got her from didn’t exactly give me a manual.”

I scoff. “I _was_ pretty skeeved when I heard my original customer had sold her,” I confess. “Damn amateur. But—she ended up in good hands. I have no complaints.”

He rubs at the back of his neck, almost bashful. “Thanks.”

“You do, however, need to clean the underseat,” I say seriously, slamming the saddle shut. “It’s looking like a pigsty in there. Keep this baby in top shape. And if you ever need some maintenance, come to me. No shitty back-alley garages. I’ll do it gratis.”

He looks unsure of what to do with that offer. “Do you need a drive out to the dig site?” he asks, and I chuckle. A way of saying thank you without actually having to say the words. It's almost cute.

“Sweet of you, but,” I say, pointing at Tyr, across the lot, “my drive's over there. I got it covered.”

I watch as Cloud’s eyebrows climb upward for the second time in the last sixty seconds. “Yeah, looks like it.”

I’ve turned my back on him by the time he talks, so I lift a hand to show I’ve heard him.

That hadn’t been as bad as I thought it’d be.

 

* * *

 

Forty minutes later I’m supervising the setup of a perimeter while sitting very unprofessionally, backwards, on Tyr, goggles shoved up high on my forehead.

I rifle around in the pocket of my vest to pull out some candy. Mom’s been on my case about my stress-smoking, so I’d promised her I’d work my jaw muscles instead of going for the lighter. I’d left my cigarette case back at camp, a sort of self-imposed limit. I may get cranky without a smoke, but I’m not deep in enough to be determined to the point of driving back to camp to get it. That’s Lily-level commitment. All my memories connected to her are inevitably followed by the trail of smoke, the tang of nicotine, the clinging yellow of cigarettes on fingertips and white clothing.

Chocolate is far more pleasant. I like chewing on things when I’m thinking. Mom isn’t very happy with the idea of me keeping food around my workplace, but since I haven’t swallowed any rivets yet, I’ll call it a tentative success.

The badlands look the same they did at six AM. Flat. Barren. Dusty. Incredibly inhospitable. I scuff at the ground with the toe of one boot, trying to think of what to do next. Everyone’s in place and doing their jobs—tech salvage goes to the engineers, iron and the likes to the builders. What the architects will do with it in the city is their business. All I know is they need the material so they can start rebuilding everything Bahamut and Deepground did a great job of knocking down. The combined destruction of those two and the giant _shit_ Meteorfall took on Midgar and the surrounding areas have left them not much better than destitute.

I’ve been spoiled. The Canyon may be rocky and hot, but it’s not in shambles. Not the livable parts of it, anyway. Everything works, more or less. Edge was barely getting by when I left. Now it’s even worse—and I had to leave Mom behind in the mess of it all. She insists that she doesn’t mind, and that she prefers the house over the slums. I think anyone would. It’s still not ideal, though. If anything, the renovation of Edge is going to open up more possibilities for her to move out and get a proper place. I’m going to have more money than I’ll know what to do with after this job is done.

“How’s being boss going for you, Boss?”

I look up to see Yuffie standing literally right next to me. She’s done that a few times. I can never hear her coming. I don’t think I’m going to get used to her popping up like a prairie dog. _Ever_.

“Fine,” I say dully, the chocolate stick twitching between my lips as I talk.

“That looks tasty,” she observes. I flip open the top of the box and proffer it to her. She takes four sticks, grinning at me. “Thanks!”

“You here because you want to ask me something, or are you using me for my food?” I say as I pull off my goggles and clip them around my belt. I won’t be putting them on again any time soon.

“Mostly the second one,” Yuffie answers through a mouthful of chocolate. “Gosh, these are really good.”

“Hence my eating them,” I tell her.

“I noticed you have pistols.”

I glance down at the holsters. The weight is so familiar I’d forgotten they were there. “Oh, those? Yeah.”

She’s halfway through her second stick. “Do you like using materia?”

“Eh,” I say. “Not much. I’ve augmented some things a couple of times. Too much of a hassle otherwise. Don’t like how tired it makes me.”

“I have _lots_ of types if you’re ever interested,” she goes on, totally undeterred. “There are tons of conditioning tips for minimizing the stamina drain. Some materia kinds even help with the fatigue.”

“Isn’t materia going a little out of fashion, anyway?” I ask. “Nobody’s using or creating mako anymore. It’s becoming obsolete.”

Yuffie looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Materia will _never_ be out of fashion. I won’t let it be.”

“Good luck,” I murmur. Materia’s pretty, and if you know how to use it, it can be effective—but it’s nothing you can’t reproduce with good aim and sharp awareness. Relying on something you may not have in the future isn’t a good idea. Using materia as a crutch in battle isn’t a good idea. Materia itself is not a good idea, period—not since the reactors went out of business and Shinra collapsed. If you can’t fight without it, you’re useless. “Wouldn’t it just be more convenient to use a handgun?”

“Wow, you sound like Vincent,” Yuffie says, but the comparison is lost on me. “He can be so _boring_ sometimes. What’s the fun in fighting if you don’t get to move around a bit?”

I take a small bite of my chocolate stick. “I’d rather not have to move at all.”

She finishes her last stick and crosses her arms. “I should introduce you two. You’d get along just fine. He’ll be here tomorrow, anyway.”

“Shelf your expectations,” I say. “I’m not much of a social butterfly.”

“Even better. You two could sit around and _frown_ at things together. You’re not as bad as you seem to think you are, you know. You’re pretty funny.”

I steal a glimpse at her from the corner of my eye. “I’m not here to make friends, Kisaragi.”

The look in her eyes turns challenging. “It’s _Yuffie_. And everyone needs friends.”

“Sure,” I mutter. The burning need for a smoke increases.

“You look sad. Can I get anything for you?” Yuffie says. I shake my head.

“Unless you have a nice big pack of cigarettes in one of those pockets of yours, I don’t think you can be of much help.”

She stares at me for a moment. “Maybe I should introduce you to Cid, too.”

“Another one of your friends?”

“Yeah,” she says, beaming. And then she slaps her knees with her hands, apparently determined. “I’m not gonna let you sit around here being grumpy. Come on, get up. Let’s go.”

“What? Where?”

“Anywhere. Get Tifa and go for a walk. It’ll be good for you.”

She hooks her arm through mine and yanks me off balance, forcing me to regain my footing on the dusty ground. She’s insanely strong for her size, and I’m too surprised to protest. I can't remember the last time someone other than Mom touched me willingly.

“My bike— ”

“Will be there when you get back,” she says cheerily, not turning to look at me.

This is going to be a long day.


End file.
